Of Ghosts and Punching Bags
by xAppleDownx
Summary: His re-entry into the good Doctor John H. Watson's life is rather theatrical. And it includes expensive wine, moustaches, and a (potentially) broken nose. Sherlock Holmes returns at the most inconvenient time. Based on various trailers and rumours for series 3.


A/N

I'm not really sure where this came from. Well, after writing my dissertation I probably just needed to write something else. So here's my take on a possible reunion. There's a moustache, white wine, un-dead detectives and a lot of punches.

All characters belong to BBC.

Enjoy!

**Oo0oo0O0oo0oO**

**Of Ghosts and Punching Bags**

He scratches his moustache absentmindedly – instinctively. Of course it hasn't always been instinct to him as he only decided to grow it recently. Time for a change. Just to make sure everything is still ready, he pads his pocket. Still there, definitely.

That's good. Very good. He smiles at nothing and to no one in particular.

'Sir, are you ready to order?'

John looks up and sees a waiter glancing down at him. More than anything he looks like at kid, hardly out of sixth form.

'No thanks. I'm waiting for my date,' he smiles politely and adds as an afterthought: 'I've got a date.'

'Very well, sir' replies the boy but eyes him warily. As if he doubts him. John grows slightly annoyed but manages to beat down the impulse to lash out at the poor boy. After all it is just his anxiety speaking, nothing more.

Mary's running late, of course. She's a brilliant woman and he absolutely admires her work spirit but occasionally it seems to take over, making her about as forgetful as…. No, not going there. Tonight is about him and Mary, starting anew together.

John exhales in a desperate attempt to rid himself of any excess anxiety.

'Actually!' He calls out to the boy, 'some white wine would be lovely, please'. The kid nods nonchalantly and swans off, looking ridiculously posh in his fancy attire. He gulps. This place, maybe it isn't the best place to do this. But he wants this night to be special and Mary deserves it.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

_On my way, promise XX_

Short and to the point. A smile tugs at his lips. She's lovely, his Mary.

It's a while before the waiter (finally!) brings him a carafe of white wine. It's most likely the most expensive they have to offer but John chooses not to mind. Not tonight, he decides.

The waiter pours him a tiny mouthful in a fancy glass, then gazes at him expectantly. Supposed to taste, right. John gently lifts the glass ever careful not to break it and brings it to his lips.

The flavour is almost syrupy, sweetly tickling his taste buds. Oh yes, definitely very, _very _good.

'Yes. That's good, yes. It will do nicely, thank you.'

With a court nod the waiter finally fills the glass properly before disappearing again. John glances at his watch. She's nearly 15 minutes late now but he is certain all will be forgiven once she shows up. He's been tardy too on occasion. It's just that tonight is important (of course she doesn't really know that) and John wants everything to go over smoothly, no interruptions.

He senses someone standing next to the table, an irritating presence that, at the moment, he wants to go away and leave him alone. But then it speaks.

"Hello John"

John looks up because it's what a normal human being would do. And he's so very ordinary, John is. The person towering over him is so very far from ordinary though. Actually he's completely and entirely impossible. He gulps – because that's apparently what he does when he's confronted by a ghost.

A ghost. Phantom. That's what it is, yes. Or so John wills himself to believe. He doesn't know where to look. He only knows he doesn't want to look at the ghost anymore – it's not really fun or very convenient. So he looks down and hopes it goes away.

Just waiting for Mary. He's just nervous. Another sip of the divine wine. But the ghost is still there.

John looks up again. He can't help himself. And there he is. Sherlock _bloody dead_ Holmes.

Dead.

_Goodbye John. _

No.

'John.' The ghost states, taking him in.

'No' is John's immediate reaction. Very much 'No.'. He repeats himself and knows deep down that Sherlock Holmes hates repetition. It's so terribly dull and tedious. Why bother wasting precious breath (and breathing's boring, too) saying the same thing twice? No point, simply no point.

'No. Just…" he holds up a hand as if to block his view of the dead man (_Un-dead, John!)_ standing in front of him and then adds, 'no'. Firmly, conclusive.

Abruptly he stands and pushes past Sherlock, extremely careful not to make contact. You can't touch the dead. Phantoms, ghosts. Idiots.

On the way he passes the annoying waiter from earlier who raises an eyebrow at him. John promptly ignores him and continues his path towards the door. Fresh air, he needs fresh air.

He barely steps a foot outside the posh restaurant (really, this posh? Who was he trying to impress?) when someone – he knows exactly who – grabs hold of his elbow and forces him to turn.

'I need you to _listen_!' Sherlock's voice is incredibly insistent and real, so very _real_.

Before he gets a chance to finish John lashes out, fist connecting with the un-dead detective's nose. Perhaps it breaks. He doesn't care though, if it breaks or not.

'No I won't!' he shouts. 'You were dead. Dead! So no, I bloody well won't listen.'

'John.' He's almost begging now, John realises. But Sherlock Holmes has never begged in his life. But he's dead, so in the end – John supposes – anything is possible.

'No.' He has calmed considerably but his voice is still lathered with anger. Anger and hurt. 'If you expect to just waltz back into my life and have everything return to normal, well – sod it! You got it wrong. The great Sherlock Holmes got it wrong. 'And it feels brilliant to state, to witness one of the few times the detective actually makes a mistake.

But then it hits him. Sherlock was dead, real proper dead and now all of a sudden he's not. The miracle he so longed for is standing right in front of him. Living, breathing. And bleeding a bit.

'John?' It's Mary this time. Sweet, miraculous Mary who came into his life when it was the darkest it had ever been. He turns to her, an apologetic half-smile on his lips before she finally notices the lanky man next to him. Her mouth (he's kissed it many times, knows the layout of it by heart) forms a small o. Yeah, she's shocked too.

Somehow, after seeing her, John is able to pull himself together. He walks over to her, and grabs her hand reassuringly. They need to leave and they need to leave now. But Mary seems to think differently. Warily she steps up in front of Sherlock, whose nose is still bleeding rather a lot, and gazes at him with a quite whimsical smile playing on her lips.

'It's great to finally meet you, Sherlock. And quite unexpected I must say. I was under the impression you were dead. Appears you're not.'

'Obviously.' He almost sneers.

'Please pop 'round for tea sometimes. I'd be delighted.' Mary's always sweet and polite but never this sweet. And the John realises that she's actually teasing the detective.

Oh she's good. And clever. And his girlfriend.

And seemingly she is able to handle the man-child with the bleeding (_is it broken?_) nose John notes, internally slightly gleeful. God he wanted to punch the bloody idiot so many times when he was alive but then suddenly the idiot was gone and John had been forced to take it out on the ruddy wall instead. Poor Mrs. Hudson had walked in on him numerous times, punching the wall furiously, almost rivalling Sherlock in abuse of her flat. She'd always been lovely about it of course. Seen in retrospect, John feels absolutely terrible and decides to make it up to his former landlady whichever way he can.

'Tea?' The way Sherlock speaks the word makes it sound dreadful and terribly dull. But then again that was an ability he always had, the ability to make trivial things such as afternoon tea and food (and sleep) boring. It was always about _the work_.

_And, Jesus! Sherlock's really not dead. He's breathing_ (breathing. Breathing's boring!), _bleeding and – bloody hell – alive. _

Suddenly the world is spinning furiously and it's all too much. He has to get away. He holds Mary's hand in a vice-like grip, almost certainly hindering proper circulation but she seems unfazed by it.

'We better be off, Sherlock.' Mary is saying but John hardly registers. His fingers prickle slightly from the impact of hitting the un-dead detective. But it felt so good.

Suddenly he feels like punching him again. So he does.

'John!' Mary exclaims. But all he can think is _sod it_, because he needs a punching bag and a tall detective seems just about right. This time Sherlock staggers slightly but remains standing. It's almost as if he welcomes the punches. Almost.

He was a soldier once. He had bad days and today is definitely a bad day. Besides, the git deserves it. And he knows it.

'John.' It's Mary again. Good Mary, lovely Mary, his Mary. She grounds him and, by God, he desperately needs that now. Unable to really focus on what's happening around him, John laughs. A desperate, almost sobbing breathless laugh.

'Even death is a game to you. _Everything's_ just a game to you, isn't it?' And for the first time John looks Sherlock directly in the eyes. They're exactly the same, too. Maybe a bit remorseful. But John's having none of it, not tonight.

So he grabs Mary's hand firmly, hails a cab and leaves the detective behind. After all, his ego should be enough to keep him company. Otherwise he probably has a spare skull somewhere.

He'll be back though; John's sure of it.

He smiles.

**Oo0oo0O0oo0oO**

A/N

Please leave word – I'd love to hear what you thought of it. I have a few more ideas swimming around my head, so who knows, I might put pen to paper one day in the near future.


End file.
